


Canvas

by dramatricks



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatricks/pseuds/dramatricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ll paint, and Rachel Berry will always be your canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit of Faberry smut. Originally posted at my (now defunct) Livejournal.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering.”

Your ears barely register the words, because your eyes have been entirely too focused on the skin that is being slowly ( _too damn slowly_ ) revealed as she takes off first the sweater, then her shirt, then her skirt, and she’s standing in front of you, smirking, in just her underwear… and knee socks.

But because it’s Rachel, and you know what’s good for you, you tear your gaze away from her breasts and meet her eyes.  She smiles brightly, and you feel as if you’ve won some sort of prize for not being a twelve year old boy.  Much.

“What have you been wondering?” Your voice is husky, low, and really, this is your life, being naked (for the most part) on the bed, while Rachel wants _to talk_.  But, Rachel wants to talk, and you’ve been completely, utterly whipped for _months_ , which is why you’re smiling despite the ache coursing throughout your body.

Aching because Rachel is smirking at you while her hands are reaching behind her back, and that bra is slipping off her shoulders and she places it neatly on top of the pile of clothes on her desk.  You love the way your clothes are mixed in with hers, and for a split second you allow yourself to imagine fighting with Rachel over which drawers of the bureau are yours and which are hers, in a tiny apartment in New York…

Rachel’s words tear you out of your reverie, though, and the soft dreamy smile on your face disappears, because her voice is uncertain and wavering as she says them.

“Why did you draw pictures of me on the bathroom walls?”

She’s not looking at you now, probably because in her mind’s eye she can see the grotesque, pornographic representations of herself that won’t ever really be erased, no matter how many times you’ve (unknown to her) tried to scrub away those pictures after Cheerios practices.  And you sigh as the ache morphs into one in your _heart_ , because it’s _you_ who put those images there, first on the wall then in Rachel’s head, and you hate knowing that as happy as these last few months have been, Rachel won’t completely be able to forget the hurt you caused.

You get up from the bed and forget the self-consciousness you’d felt at what you’re wearing, crossing the floor and tucking your hand under Rachel’s chin, raising it so that brown eyes meet hazel, and you press your lips to hers, softly.

“I like to draw,” you say with a shrug, and she rolls those eyes, because you both knew _that_.  “And… I liked you.  I wasn’t exactly happy about that fact, then. So the drawings were… I don’t know.  Me trying to have it both ways.”

Rachel sighs and tucks her head against your shoulder as your fingers run lightly over the length of her back, and you smile at the shivers you can feel under your fingertips.  She knows all this, knows your struggles, and knows how difficult it was for you to just admit that yeah, you were sort of kind of _really really gay_ for Rachel Berry.  You know it doesn’t stop the old Quinn from still hurting her, even if the new Quinn never stops trying to atone for it.

“I don’t think,” Rachel says slowly, and now it’s your turn to shiver as heated breath meets the skin of your neck, “that those drawings really showcased your talent.  Perhaps you need… a new subject.”

You scoff, shaking your head, and somehow you’ve maneuvered yourself so that you’re more fully pressed against Rachel, one thigh between her legs, and she’s up against the far wall of her bedroom.  She raises her face and glowers at you in protest – there are Broadway posters on that wall, after all – but you shift and your thigh moves against her, and the words of disapproval die on her lips as she moans.

“I don’t _want_ a new subject,” you breathe before your mouth captures hers again.

Color. 

_Light reflected off of objects._

You’re grateful her fathers are gone for the night; it’s been three weeks so far of keeping up the “ignore Rachel during the day” charade, and stolen moments after school that are too few, what with your mother insisting on the two of you bonding again, and Rachel’s fathers keeping her busy with MySpace videos.  But tonight your mom and Rachel’s dads have gone out to dinner to get acquainted, and you’ve got a few hours that you’re determined to make the most of.

When you pull away, you’re both gasping for air, and Rachel’s lips shine, almost bruised, in the setting sun filtering in from her window.  You love the contrast of her darker skin against your pale hand as it trails down her chest and cups the weight of her breast; you run a thumb over her nipple and Rachel bucks against your hips, rolling her eyes with a grin as you chuckle.  Colors can be warm or cool, you know; your eyes take in every inch of her, the darkness of her eyes, hooded and deep.  Her brown hair splays over her shoulders; a small pink tongue darts out and licks her lips when you roll your hips against her in a tease. You both can feel the coolness of what you’re wearing; clear silicone pressed against a palette of dark and pale thighs.

The light blue of a vein is pulsing at Rachel’s neck and you can’t help but run your tongue along it until you find the shell of Rachel’s ear and suck it on it lightly, reveling in the moan it elicits from the smaller girl.  Your fingers slide easily down to the waistband of her panties; your thumbs glide over her hipbones as you take her underwear along the same path as your hands, until you’re close enough to breathe in her scent. Rachel steps out, letting you toss the fabric over your shoulder with a smirk, hoping it lands on her desk along with the rest of your clothes.

You take your time standing back up, instead brushing soft, teasing kisses along Rachel’s thighs, moving inward until your lips touch Rachel’s center, and only when your tongue flicks Rachel’s clit just once do you stand up.  A deep pink flush spreads over Rachel’s cheeks even as she glares at you for stopping, and her eyes are sparkling.  Your hand dips low and curves under Rachel’s upper thigh, pulling until her left leg is draped over your hip.

“Quinn,” she murmurs, even as she’s grinding ever-so-slightly against you, “the bed…”

You silence her with a kiss, white teeth nipping at a rosy pink lower lip.  “No,” you growl.  “ _Here_.”

You can’t explain it, but there’s just something that’s still running through your head: the thought of _Finn Hudson_ groping _your_ girl, and you don’t want the bed; you want to remind her who she belongs to, take her right there, up against the wall.

Space.

_A feeling of depth; the artist's use of the area within the picture plane._

You love when you and Rachel are together like this.  At school, there’s too much _negative space_ , distance between you and the girl you want to be near more than anyone else.  There’s too much pretending, with the bright red color of a uniform that serves as almost as a fence keeping Rachel _out_.

But then there’s _this_ , this _positive space_ that you can’t get enough of, because Rachel is panting into your ear and your fingers are buried inside of her, your thumb tracing her clit as you suck on the skin where neck meets shoulder.  Her hands are tangled in your hair, anchoring you to her and you wonder when the space between you and Rachel that had existed for the last four years is now, suddenly, hardly any space at all.

Just the two of you, together.

“Quinn,” she whimpers against your mouth, her hips thrusting hard against your fingers, and you know what she wants, what she always wants.

_More_.

“Quinn, please…”

You pull back so that you can look at her, and your teeth worry your bottom lip, because this is the first time _you’ve_ done this with Rachel, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t nervous.

“Are you sure?” you ask softly.  “Do you think you’re ready?”

And once again, as she always does, Rachel closes the space between the two of you, wrapping her arms around your neck and holding on, bringing her lips to yours.  “I’m ready,” she whispers, kissing you lovingly.

“I’m pretty sure you can feel that, anyway.”

It’s your turn to blush as she laughs, the sound filling the room and bringing a smile to your face.  Even when she laughs at you, it sounds like she’s singing, and you can’t get enough of it.  Your hand slips away from her center and you raise your fingers to your mouth, sucking away the wetness as Rachel’s darkened eyes widen and she stares at you.  You hope she gets the point, for next time; she nods as you quirk an eyebrow.

You slide your hand under her right hip and then both hands are on her ass as you lift her up; she wraps her legs around your waist and gently, gently you lower her.  Her head thumps against the wall and her eyes flutter closed; her mouth opens silently as she is filled, completely, her body joining with yours.

She’s so little; she’s the smallest one in glee, so it’s easy to hold her up, to steady her.  Your arms wrap around her waist and hold her, protecting.  _She’s yours_.  You tuck your lips close to her ear.

“Okay, baby?”

Her eyes open and she stares at you again, not saying a word.  She flattens her palms on your shoulders, rolls her hips against you and moans as the strap-on apparently hits _that spot_ , and yeah, you guess she’s more than okay.

She’s _gorgeous_.

Form.

_The formal structure of a work of art_

Rachel _is_ small, dainty, totally unlike those pictures you’ve drawn of her, especially the ones of her in your old journal.  Those are the ones you’re most ashamed of, even more than the pornographic pictures in the bathroom.  Rachel drawn as a grotesque caricature with a huge nose, gigantic teeth… Your subconscious telling you that if you could make her look gross, disgusting, you could stop thinking about her.  Stop wanting her.

And always, _always_ … the hearts.

And now there she is, holding onto you as she moves against you, taking the strap-on deeper; your hands lift and lower.  You press her into the wall and Rachel is looking at you, really _looking_ at you, and there’s nothing gross about the way she looks at you, the way she feels against your skin.  The way your eyes are hungry for every inch of her: the line of her jaw as her mouth works with the sounds of just how much she _wants_ you; the swell of her breasts as she takes in breath after breath; the tautness of muscles on her stomach and in her arms as she holds on, to _you_.

You ease off, then, content to still your motions and let her call the shots, to just watch her.  Her eyes light up as she recognizes what you’re doing; she nuzzles your cheek and it’s like what a _puppy_ would do.  You’d laugh at it, but her voice is warm and tender in your ear.

“I love you, Quinn Fabray.”

The response leaves your lips as naturally as air; you love her, god, you love her _so fucking much_. It spurs you on and you release her waist to position your hands on either side of her head, supporting yourself as you start to thrust into her, faster, deeper.  Rachel groans, and it sounds a lot like salvation.

Texture.

_The surface quality of an object that we sense through touch._

Her wall is cool under your fingertips; Rachel is sweaty underneath _you_. You lower your head to take a nipple into your mouth and suck into pebbled hardness; Rachel is gripping at you hard, whether to pull you closer or because she’s afraid to fall, you can’t tell.

But you won’t let her fall.

You cover every inch of her chest, her neck, her face with your mouth and tongue, the smoothness of her skin rising to goose bumps, her breathing becoming ragged and hard and her whimpers unintelligible.  Every now and then you catch your name, and that just drives you on _more_. You can feel the coarseness of the small patch of curls at her center as she rubs against you, can feel her wetness, slick and hot against your own.

“Mine,” you practically snarl, biting down onto her neck and she yelps; you watch with pride as the skin reddens and puckers with your mark, your _claim_.  You soothe the injured area with kisses, feeling the heat.  “Mine,” you repeat, in a whisper this time, and feel Rachel nod against you.

“Yours,” she mumbles, and she locks you in harder with her legs. “Oh, god, Quinn, all yours…”

She lets go of your shoulders and her hands find your breasts; your knees weaken as she feels _you_ , rolls and pinches your nipples into hardness and you know that you won’t be able to hold her up much longer if she continues.  You glance around and with one arm around her waist you’re pulling Rachel away from the wall and moving while the other arm sweeps your clothes and Rachel’s papers off of her desk.

She huffs a little in disapproval and you shake your head; you lower her onto the desk, scooting her forward so that she is fully against you again.  She leans back as you grind down and she pushes her hips up; Rachel’s eyes roll back in her head and _thank god_ her dads aren’t home, because you want to make her scream.

You’re pretty sure it won’t take much.

Line.

_An identifiable path created by a point moving in space._

  1. You want to paint, and you want to draw, and more than that, you want to paint and draw _Rachel_.



Your life up to this point has been an unending series of lines that you were _never_ to stray from.  The intersecting lines of a cross, the harsh lines of the family tree beginning and ending with the father, whether heavenly or earthly. The line of expectation, of A plus B equals C.  Everything changed with two blue lines on a pregnancy test.

And somehow the lines had curved, your path had intersected with Rachel’s in a way that neither of you had really expected.  And now as her hands grip your shoulders and pull you down onto her, you know that the two of you are inextricably joined together, creating a line of life that you’re not sure you can do without.

“Quinn, Quinn,” her voice is high and raspy as Rachel thrusts her hips towards you; you slip your hands underneath her, cupping her ass and lifting her up onto the strap-on so that she can take it deeper.  You angle yourself, even though it’s awkward, until you’re pretty sure you’re hitting that spot again.  Rachel’s neck is tense and her eyes are closed, her mouth stretched wide as she gasps.

Time and movement.

_How the viewer perceives and looks at the painting._

It’s awkward leaning over her on the desk, but you’ve pinned her arms above her head and with each thrust the strap-on brushes against _you_ , and the way your moans are mixing with Rachel’s, you know it won’t be long for either of you.  You think that this is when Rachel looks most beautiful, with her head thrown back and her body held down by yours.  She’s bossy as hell in school and in glee, and some days you want to alternately kiss her and strangle her; but then there are moments like these when she submits to you, completely and openly, and you can’t do anything but tangle your tongue with hers and say the words again.

“I love you, Rachel, I love you…”

“Oh, god, Quinn,” she whispers, “Oh god, please…”

She doesn’t even really have to ask before you begin to fuck her harder, because she needs it and you want to hear her, want to feel her body writhe and jerk underneath yours, and the strap-on keeps brushing against you and sending little jolts of electricity through you. Rachel’s rocking against you with little grunts and mewls; you’re chanting her name over and over as you roll your hips.

Rachel’s eyes snap open and she growls; she pulls herself out of your grasp and you furrow your brow, but before you can protest her legs are around your hips again and her hands are clutching at your back, nails scratching and causing you to hiss in pleasure as she rides you.  Gone are the lazy motions of your hand and you’re probably a little too rough when you use your thumb and index finger to pinch her clit, but that’s all it takes, that’s all she needs.

Rachel holds on, digging into your back and you’re pretty sure that she’s drawn blood, but it doesn’t matter because her body jerks once, twice against yours, she throws her head back, and it’s _your name_ that slides effortlessly from her lips as she comes – not Puck’s, not that asshole Jesse St. James’, not Finn’s – _yours_.  And that’s all _you_ need, because even as Rachel is still thrusting slowly and gently against the strap-on, her mouth is on your breasts and her hands are everywhere as you come, barely able to hold yourself up from the force of it.

“Baby,” you gasp against her ear, feeling her teeth bite down on a sensitive nipple, “Rachel, baby…”

Rachel holds onto you, _holds you up_ , as you ride out your orgasm; you press your face into the crook of her neck, lazily stroking her back with your hands until you both are able to breathe normally.

“I don’t think I can move,” you mumble against her skin, and Rachel chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to use this desk properly again.”

You draw back and smirk then, winking at her, before you pick her up effortlessly and swing her over to the bed.  You pause to pull off the strap-on, and then climb in beside her, spooning the girl into your chest.

Composition.

_The arrangement of elements in a work of art._

You’re still amazed, after all these months, at how well you and Rachel fit together, how her arms and legs are tangled up in yours and how it’s almost instinctual that your hand is stroking the sweaty tendrils of hair away from her face, and her fingers are cupping your cheek as she looks at you like you’re the only one that exists, will ever exist, for her.

And you think, maybe she’s right.

You know those pictures on the bathroom wall, and in your journal, will probably never be erased from Rachel’s memory. But maybe, you think, as you pull the covers over the two of you and you watch Rachel’s eyes close as she drifts off to sleep, maybe you can create different pictures for her, pictures that might slowly become more powerful than the ones seared onto her heart.

You tuck your head next to Rachel’s and wrap your arms more tightly around her.

You’ll paint, and Rachel Berry will always be your canvas.


End file.
